How Far We Fall
by Rainsaber
Summary: Sequel to 'Which Way I Fly.' Athos threw down the proverbial gauntlet for D'Artagnan and unknowingly started them down a path of death, destruction, and retribution. Family/Friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**How Far We Fall**

 **Summary:** Sequel to 'Which Way I Fly.' Athos threw down the proverbial gauntlet for D'Artagnan and unknowingly started them down a path of death, destruction, and retribution. Family/Friendship.

 **A/N:** This is a sequel to 'Which Way I Fly.' I had considered making revisions to this piece as well, but revisions are the exact problem that's backlogging me with my other fic 'True Faith' at this point. Part of me does enjoy reading back through my old stories every now and then. So, while there may be some things cut and added, it definitely won't be too extensive, because these fics have been sitting on my hard drive for a little too long. So, this will be a fairly fast upload. My goal is to get the whole thing back up either by the end of this week or by the middle of next week.

 **Warnings:** Blood, torture, angst, mentions of past child abuse, etc.

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Despite Dumas being public domain, these characters are still his incarnations that I continue to borrow for writing exercise.

* * *

"Pick up your feet," Athos scolded. "Don't drag them in the dirt."

D'Artagnan bit his lip and growled as he lunged forward in retaliation. Athos met him passively and continued the match as fast and as grueling as it had begun, half an hour ago in the courtyard. It had started out innocently enough, and Athos knew that goading the boy by playing on his skill and pride was asking for trouble. It was the laziness, despite D'Artagnan's nearly perfect footwork, that Athos couldn't stand to see, and sought desperately to correct.

The boy rushed forward again, and Athos deflected with as little energy as he could muster to strike forward at the last second. And he nearly had the boy as he circled around his back but, typically, D'Artagnan saved himself at the last possible moment. Athos would have been more annoyed at his own failure to successfully find an undefendable opening if it weren't for the frustrating need…or rather impulsive urge to lecture the boy about his recklessness. Drawing your opponent in by feigning weakness would one day get you killed if you weren't careful.

As if sensing his inner turmoil, D'Artagnan halted for a moment to catch his breath, and Athos granted it out of need for it himself. But he did not lower his sword, nor did he take his eyes off his opponent. Passivity was what Athos knew best. Hiding his fears and feelings was done with an immeasurable ease in comparison to the young musketeer-in-training before him. D'Artagnan in too many ways was an open book, making himself an easy target for smarter villains to take advantage of. So when a cocky smirk suddenly burst forth on the boy's face, the elder of the two couldn't help but feel the smallest bit of disappointment.

"Do you have something against the dirt, Athos," D'Artagnan asked in a coy tone.

Clearly, the boy needed another lesson in the mindful aspects of a duel. For when one finds a weakness in his enemy, the worst course of action is to reveal it. "Perhaps I do," Athos encouraged while pushing forward again. "And perhaps I do not. I hope that was not meant to take me off my guard-"

Athos attempted to disarm D'Artagnan, and when that failed he tried to take advantage of the boy's feet again, only this time, to his surprise, D'Artagnan was ready for it. He kicked up a thick cloud of dust from a patch of dirt and skirted around Athos as quick as a hare. Athos scrubbed at his watery eyes and swung his arm out in attempts to dissipate the newly formed cloud between them. "Damn you, boy," he cursed.

"No, but that was-" But D'Artagnan was cut off by his own self when the heel of his foot landed awkwardly in the large divot that Planchet had yet to fill in from the duel that Porthos and Aramis had yesterday. The next thing he knew his bottom was aching something terrible and there was Athos' sword staring him in the face.

"Pity," Athos said with a smug face. "I seem to have come out the victor."

Something caught between a glare and a childish pout on the boy nearly made him laugh out loud, but he held it in and instead held out a hand to help him up. "You pushed me toward that damned hole," D'Artagnan complained.

"You irritated my eyes."

"You criticized my footwork!"

" _You_ should have been paying more attention-"

"Are you ladies finished," Porthos called from the back door. "I'll not wait all damn day to break open this old vintage!"

"You mean to tell me you've waited this long," Athos retorted.

In reply, Porthos gave Athos a rude hand gesture before disappearing back inside.

D'Artagnan chuckled as he went to collect his discarded jacket.

Leave it to his cousin to distract them from the important matter at hand. One of these days they were going to have a long talk that involved no wine, no food, nor cards of any kind. Porthos would be sure to crack before five minutes. As they went in for water Athos tapped the boy's shoulder as he passed by. "Remember to pick up your feet and I'll have nothing to criticize."

D'Artagnan followed not too long afterwards.

* * *

That night, Athos tossed and turned for an hour before getting up in a dark mood, resigning himself to no sleep yet again. If fighting and exercise were not good incentives for deep blissful dreamless hours, he didn't know what was anymore. He was counting on the silence and privacy of the empty fireside, but when he saw that Aramis was already its occupant, nose deep in a religious text, he considered taking his chances with the bed. But, ever like a bird of prey at night, Aramis spotted him before he could make his retreat. Reluctantly, Athos took a seat beside him. The only question that remained was whether the priest was in a particularly talkative mood or a reflective one.

"He's a good fighter, Athos."

Talkative then. So much for companionable silence. "He's young."

Aramis looked up from his book, affronted. "And we're not? I think I should be insulted."

Athos rolled his eyes.

Aramis turned a page. "We all were once his age, fueled by a fire that made no obstacle too great."

"Hopefully one day soon it will do him a favor and fade."

"Has it done you any favors?"

Athos glared in his direction and wished that he had a glass of the wine they shared earlier in his hands, rather the whole of another bottle. "Some," he stubbornly replied.

"Athos," Aramis said, softly, closing his book and pulling his glasses off. "There isn't much that anyone can do to take away the kind of pain that D'Artagnan carries. You say the practice will help and I see that it does, but at what cost? At this rate it won't be long before you push him too hard. The boy works on his footwork and speed every morning. He's already faster than a hawk on a clear day in some respects. Not to mention that it's driving Planchet up the walls trying to keep the poor grass alive. I'll say it just once more tonight. D'Artagnan is a good fighter. His instincts are sound."

"Perhaps," Athos snapped. "But his weakness is knowing it. You've seen him. One day he will goad an enemy into a careless mistake and I do not want to be the one to bear witness of it. Do you?"

Perhaps it was the light from the fire that softened the features on Aramis' face, because it had only seemed that way for a scarce moment before they hardened in a fierce determination. "No. But we are human. We fear, we feel, and we err. It is an inevitability. What matters in the end are the people you surround yourself with when those inevitabilities come to call."

Athos sighed, knowing Aramis wasn't done. "And?"

Aramis smiled. "A little positive reinforcement couldn't hurt. I'll not say a word more." Then he opened his book again, leaned back, and laid his feet on a stool close to the hearth. He replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose and to his word, did not say another word that night.

Athos settled down in his own chair and was determined to stay there for the rest of the night, fully knowing that he would wake with a stiff back in the morning. But he needed to prove a point…even if it were only to himself.

* * *

The next morning saw D'Artagnan up earlier than the sunrise with a light breakfast in his hand. He took another bite from his apple and let his legs dangle freely over the side of the roof of their apartments. There was little wind in the cool morning to rustle his hair, which made him glad that he hadn't given a thought to wear his jacket. The bright warm light of the morning remedied any previous discomfort and made the experience pleasantly familiar; because it was quiet and peaceful moments like these he missed the most from his farm back home. Paris certainly wasn't home like the country was. It was too dense and close together to really take the time to appreciate the bustling life around, and the innumerable people that colored it. Things had been simple for him since his birth, and though his home wasn't as happy and carefree as it had been when he was a child, it was still something to call his own, something he missed.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a moment like this at the start of his day to simply breathe the morning in and feel the rare clarity of his normally tumultuous thoughts. It made him wish that he wasn't the only one up here. But soon the sounds of his friends waking and talking below him brought forth part of the company he desired. He listened with half an ear, his head still in the clouds, as the sounds wafted out from the open window he made use of earlier.

"Porthos," Aramis inquired. "Have you seen D'Artagnan this morning?"

"The boy's on the roof," Porthos replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"What," someone else exclaimed.

D'Artagnan tried not to laugh. Really, he did. But when Athos' head poked out the window and spotted him, he lost that battle. "Good morning Athos," he chuckled.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?!"

D'Artagnan smiled. "Watching the sunrise. Would you like to join me?"

Athos scoffed…or rather huffed and disappeared without another word.

"That boy has a damned death wish!"

Next, Aramis' head poked out the window with a kind smile. "Do Porthos and I a favor, D'Artagnan, and please come inside when you are finished. Preferably _before_ Athos decides to do anything foolish."

"Which would be soon," Porthos called.

Aramis was then yanked inside, an indignant shout following from Athos. _"Do you think this is funny?!"_

Just to spite the older man D'Artagnan took his time to finish the apple. Then, after another swish of his dangling feet he climbed back down, the apple core secured in his mouth, and landed through the window with the grace of a cat. But D'Artagnan stopped short of coming up when he noticed he was under a particularly heated gaze from a particular musketeer with crossed arms and dark bags under his eyes from lack of sleep.

D'Artagnan slowly reached up and plucked the apple core from his mouth, trying to decide whether it would be to his advantage to make a run for the front door. But Porthos came to his rescue, yet again, by hauling him to his feet and demanding that he try the fresh strawberries that Planchet had just laid on the table. The last he heard of Athos that morning was a growl and a slamming of his door upstairs. Athos didn't reappear until they made ready to leave and receive their morning duties from Monsieur de Treville.

As luck would have it, Athos and D'Artagnan were paired together on patrol. The latter valiantly tried to hide a wince at the news, but said nothing. They spent the majority of their morning in silence, which was nothing new as far as Athos was concerned, but D'Artagnan couldn't help but wonder if the older musketeer was still ruffled about his escapade earlier this morning and their duel the previous evening. The words were just on the tip of his tongue when suddenly something…or someone purposefully knocked them both to the ground from behind.

D'Artagnan whipped his head up in time to see the villain turn and flash him a derogatory gesture and run off. He growled out loud and would have taken off right then if he hadn't heard Athos groaning beside him. "Are you all right," he asked, checking his friend for injuries.

"Fine," Athos groused, attempting to get to his feet.

Like the trigger of a pistol, D'Artagnan was off, hearing the one word he needed to hear before seeking justice. D'Artagnan could vaguely hear Athos calling his name, shouting for him to wait, but the boiling anger in his chest urged his feet faster. He spotted the offender easily and let the villain lead him on a high-speed chase into the rougher precincts of the city. A brief thought of concern over Athos flashed through his mind and had him hoping that his friend hadn't followed his stupid example and instead went to find Aramis and Porthos. But, knowing Athos, he probably wasn't far behind.

And it was a good thing the musketeer wasn't. D'Artagnan had just turned down a wide passageway that ran between a number of rundown and abandoned row houses when his enemy turned to face him, with his face hidden by a coarse black scarf. The gleam in his eyes, as D'Artagnan approached, was the only warning he had of another blade that abruptly swung out, from behind a corner, with the intent to take off his head.

Instinct saved his neck when he flung his head backward and dropped to slide forward on his knees on the slick uneven cobblestones. The stones jarred his knees and shins, but he paid the pain no mind because he barely had enough time to register that the blade had missed him by less than an inch. His reflexes helped him quickly draw his own sword, and before he could think he heard it clang against the failed strike from the weapon of his original pursuer. He righted himself and was forced to defend against two men roughly twice his size with twice his strength and swordsmanship. The two masked men double-teamed and started pushing D'Artagnan into a corner. He tried to hold his ground but the strength behind the blows that were raining down on him made it difficult. Before one of them could swipe at his exposed chest, Athos joined in the fray and threw the offender away to make it a fair fight.

As soon as the space was open, D'Artagnan darted out and stood back to back with the older musketeer. For a moment no one dared move. Then, two more masked men walked out of the shadows from a covered alleyway. Not a second later two more followed.

Then another two.

And yet another pair.

D'Artagnan's heart fell with each addition to their opponent's encircling force. Two against one wouldn't have been as bad as the odds were now with ten villains to split between the two of them. This…was not a good day, at all.

"Have we angered anyone untoward recently, Athos?"

"Not to my memory," the man replied, having yet broken a real sweat. "Have you?"

"Not that I can recall," D'Artagnan replied, deflecting one assailant's eager attempt to goad the boy into an attack.

Athos deflected a similar attack from his side, getting angrier by the moment at the feeling of being toyed with purposefully. "Did I not shout for you to wait?"

"Are we to have this argument now?"

"Unless you think the point already made," his mentor snapped.

The boy tried very hard not to take that to heart, but he knew Athos only spoke the truth, and that made him feel all the worse. He had run into this head first without thinking, without reinforcements, into a part of the city he knew to be perfect for an entrapment like this. And here he and Athos were surrounded by ten men with little chance for escape.

"I'm sorry, Athos" he whispered in remorse.

"D'Artagnan," Athos whispered. "I'm going to tell you to do something you're not going to like."

"Which is?"

"Go and find Aramis and Porthos-"

"Not a chance-"

"Boy, this is no time for heroics-"

"I'm not leaving you, idiot!" D'Artagnan turned to level a glare of his own for once and was not intimidated in the least by the obvious anger that incensed Athos. It was suicidal to even consider such an option!

Athos took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh of resignation. "We will likely die in this alley if you don't-"

"Then we die together," D'Artagnan interrupted.

Athos slowly reached for D'Artagnan's free hand behind their backs. D'Artagnan chanced a look back at Athos and found the older musketeer looking at him with grim determination. They grasped wrists in silent understanding and sank into their ready positions for what was promising to possibly be the last duel they would ever have. And D'Artagnan thought that if they were, indeed, destined to die here today, there was no one else in the entire world he would rather fight alongside.

"Stay low and move quickly, do you understand," Athos asked.

"Yes," D'Artagnan replied.

It went beyond matters of pride, honor, and friendship. Athos had become so much more to him in the past couple of weeks that it hurt to think his reckless need for justice was the cause of all this. Suddenly, he found he didn't want to die today, and more than that he didn't want Athos to die either. He'd finally found someone to confide in, someone to trust in these awkward years in his life, and it seemed cruel for anyone to attempt to take that away.

"Whatever you do," Athos whispered. "Don't let go."

D'Artagnan tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. "I won't."

Athos tightened his hand around D'Artagnan's wrist in anticipation.

As was typical, D'Artagnan made the first strike.

Then, all hell broke loose.

Defending and parrying blows from five men at once was a fool's fantasy, and both musketeers learned that within seconds. D'Artagnan did his best to follow in Athos' footsteps and even went out of his way, making himself vulnerable in the process, to keep their dishonorable enemies from striking him in the back. What was surprising was that the men who were attacking D'Artagnan didn't take advantage of the openings. They kept trying to tear him away from Athos. They kept trying to attack Athos.

To injure him.

Not to kill him.

To disarm him.

To disarm them both.

Realization dawned on D'Artagnan at the worst possible moment. It slowed his reaction time to block a sword strike aimed at Athos' leg. When it went through, when the scent of blood hit the air, when Athos cried out in pain, faltered in his balance, and loosened his hold on D'Artagnan's wrist, everything irreparably fell apart.

Someone slammed into D'Artagnan's middle and, after a couple of hard attempts, successfully wrenched D'Artagnan and Athos' hands apart. The moment it happened, something snapped inside him, making him almost animalistic in his efforts to return to his mentor's side.

"No," he cried, lifted up and manhandled away like a child without the gentility. "Athos!"

He was thrown up against a wall and firmly held in place with his feet a good foot away from the ground. He writhed and tried to slip his way out of the bruising hold, but one of his enemies pressed a knife to his throat. He growled in discomfort and reluctantly had to stop struggling to keep the blade from cutting too deep. Athos looked for him in the midst of the melee and their eyes locked for one endless second, revealing something that D'Artagnan had never seen nor expected to see Athos show.

Regret.

D'Artagnan was forced to watch as they drew and tied a black bag snuggly over the head of his friend. When Athos started to blindly strike out at the number of men holding him down he was dealt a hideous blow to the face that he couldn't have anticipated. Immediately after that his entire body went limp.

"Bastards," D'Artagnan shouted, kicking out in rage. As they lifted Athos' body and started to carry him off, D'Artagnan managed to get loose and get the ground back under his feet. He knocked another two men down on an impossible second wind. All that drove him was getting to his friend before he was lost forever. But then an arm snaked around his neck from behind and the pressure cut off his air. He kicked his legs out again and managed to knock down two who rushed to subdue him. But another one caught both of his legs and held on while the air was continuously knocked out of him. He grabbed at the arm around his neck and tried to create an air pocket for his throat, space to breathe, but the man twisted him down toward the ground and used gravity to his advantage.

D'Artagnan's strength abandoned him and blackness started tunneling in, ceasing his struggles for freedom and retribution. They dropped him onto the grime and dirt of the rough cobblestones before he blacked out. For a few long agonizing moments he knew nothing but pain and the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. Then pain exploded in his side as someone kicked him for good measure. Feet scuffled around him, but no one made any attempts on him again. D'Artagnan did have enough strength left to get one last look at their adversaries as they fled. But all he could see were blurry shadows and splotches of red.

Then he saw nothing nor knew nothing else for God knows how long.


	2. Chapter 2

Aramis and Porthos barely had time to sit down at a vacant table for lunch before two of the Cardinal's guards sought them out. Both of the guards looked as if the messages they bore pained them to carry, and from the identical bored tones, Aramis started to wonder who had put them up to it and why. But that train of thought was soon forgotten.

"Your boy is lying in the gutter," one said.

"You'd best clean him up before we do," the other taunted.

Porthos' eyes flashed and he made to vacate his chair faster than he dismounted his horse in anticipation for lunch.

Aramis ignored the sharp fear that burst in his chest and quickly laid a hand on his friend before the anger could get the best of him and ruin what chances they still had. "Where," he asked.

Fervent prayers for the wellbeing of his friends were all that filled his mind as he and Porthos rode to the spot that D'Artagnan had been sighted with top speed. Casting wary glances around for any unseemly characters that may have been lurking about, the two cautiously entered the passageway that had been described to them. It didn't take long before they caught sight of their young friend lying face down in the dirty street. Once they reached his side, Aramis immediately pressed two fingers against the boy's throat. Though he felt a pulse, he also felt blood from a shallow cut. At the first sight of it, Porthos made the mistake of trying to move their young friend, to turn him over to check for the source. They were both rewarded with a loud groan of protest and bleary eyes that blinked open in pain.

Porthos grinned. "Welcome back to the living, lad."

Aramis struck Porthos on the arm, though he himself would have also laughed in relief if it hadn't been for the confused and dazed look in D'Artagnan's face. "D'Artagnan, what do you remember? What happened here?"

"Athos," D'Artagnan moaned, closing his eyes.

"No, D'Artagnan. It's Aramis and Porthos with you. Where is-"

"Aramis," Porthos said, quietly. "Tell me that is the wine or my imagination…"

Aramis followed his line of sight with trepidation and felt his heart freeze in shock. "His sword," Aramis whispered in disbelief. He turned back to D'Artagnan who was gaining a better hold over consciousness. "D'Artagnan, where is Athos?"

D'Artagnan coughed in discomfort. "Ambushed. They took him!"

"Who," Porthos demanded.

The boy shook his head, then abruptly stilled and moaned. "I don't know. There were ten of them, at least."

"Where are you hurt?"

"Just the wind…knocked out of me."

"No offense, lad," Porthos snorted. "But I'll believe that when I see it."

When they tried to get D'Artagnan to sit up they had to settle for letting him lean against the wall nearby for support. Aramis yanked his shirt up, ignoring the subsequent protests, and had a look at some nasty bruises already forming across his chest. He pressed two fingers at each rib and though none of them gave in to the pressure, a couple caused a few colorful curses from the young boy.

"Just bruised, I think," Aramis surmised. "They'll cause you some discomfort for some time."

"Wonderful," the boy gasped, trying his best to get away from his well-meaning friend.

"What is this?"

Aramis looked to Porthos' discovery on the ground near their feet and almost couldn't believe what he saw. He snatched it from Porthos hands only a moment after his friend had done the same. There was no doubt in his mind about the color or the seal upon it. "They wouldn't dare," he hissed.

"You know who they were," D'Artagnan prompted.

Aramis sighed and bit his tongue at first, but decided against his better judgment to tell the tale now and save precious time later. "They were musketeers at one time," he whispered. "The very first in fact, but they did not last long before they were disgraced and stripped of their titles by the King himself. They let themselves be swayed by the elite, by promises of riches and personal gain in exchange for knowledge that would have meant the end of the monarchy and the beginning of a reign of anarchy. Before they could be formally charged with treason they fled to the south. Rumors have given Monsieur de Treville and his predecessor headaches for years. By the time we entered into the King's service it was naught but a scandal swept under the rug that got nothing but blank faces and empty answers. This was one of them," Aramis said, holding up the seal of a defaced fleur-de-lis on a red armband.

"I don't understand," D'Artagnan said, sitting up straighter with a wince. "If they were once musketeers then what are they now?"

"Rogues," Porthos muttered, like a curse. "Aimless ruffians with not a single ounce of honor to their damned names."

"But why come back to Paris after so long? Why now," Aramis pondered. "Why kidnap a well-known musketeer and leave the other as a witness?" He shook his head at all the unconnected threads and came to a simple conclusion. "Monsieur de Treville must know of this."

Porthos retrieved Athos' fallen sword and Aramis tried not to notice the pained look on D'Artagnan's face when he laid eyes on it. When they made to move the boy and get him to his feet both musketeers stopped when D'Artagnan gasped.

"Are you injured elsewhere-" Aramis started.

D'Artagnan's eyes were wide and far away in recognition. "No, no I…That seal, I remember it."

"You've seen it before," Porthos exclaimed.

"I was very young. My father wore it, the very same." Aramis felt his stomach drop out from under him at the unsaid implications. He shared a grim look with Porthos before turning back to a very pale and quiet D'Artagnan. "Aramis, where did Athos go while I recovered? He was gone for four days. Where did he go?"

Aramis sighed. "…To visit your father."

D'Artagnan bit his lip and slapped a hand against the wall in frustration. "Why-Why did he do that," he cried.

Aramis laid a hand on the boy's and kept it still. "We all know why he did it, D'Artagnan. The real question is this: Would your father retaliate if he were threatened?"

The previously unshed tears in the boy's eyes started to fall when he clenched his eyes shut and moaned in despair. "This is my fault!-"

"No-no it is not-" Aramis denied.

" _How_ is it not?!"

"Lad," Porthos said uncharacteristically gruff-though Aramis suspected it was to gain his undivided attention. "Blaming yourself will either get Athos or yourself killed. Our brother is out there and he needs our help."

D'Artagnan hung his head in misery.

"If they did not kill him outright then it is likely we may be able to get him back," Aramis decided. "There is a power play somewhere in this, of that I am certain. And if we do not have the correct players, we will not succeed. Treville must be informed. And we must move quickly."

"Just tell me which way to go," the boy said, cold and emotionless. "So we can put an end to this once and for all."

Aramis and Porthos offered support, but D'Artagnan stubbornly refused their help and stiffly walked back out to the street.

* * *

Monsieur de Treville stood at the window of his office, momentarily lost in thought, thinking back to the innocent days of his youth and the friends he lost. Most dear in that unfortunate list was now a person, a longtime friend, that he never expected to lose, and it stung worse than any other that came before. He turned to face Aramis, Porthos, and D'Artagnan, confused for only a second before remembering that the fourth of their fellowship was indeed missing.

"Take a small company with you," Treville said. "If only for the ease of my own mind. These men are not likely to be captured, because when they fight they fight to the death. The country has likely hardened their resolve. Expect no mercy or honor from them when you duel because you will receive none. Be smart and come back in one piece. I'll not have my best fighters die victims of trickery."

When he received nothing but obedient nods in reply, he dismissed them, stopping at the invisible weight on the youngest's shoulders.

"I would speak with D'Artagnan alone before you leave."

Aramis and Porthos reluctantly left their companion behind. Once they were alone, the boy stood stock still with his eyes trained to the floor. Only the strong grip on the hilt of his sword betrayed his raging inner turmoil. It wasn't for the first time that Treville was stunned into silence by the resemblance between this younger D'Artagnan and the boy's father. Nearly everything but the young face would have convinced him that it was his old and dear friend standing before him to chase away the horrid accusations and harsh reality. This was also not the first time that he thought this boy was too damn young.

"They have poisoned his mind it seems," Treville said. "For I remember a different Bertrand D'Artagnan from my days. He was a man of honor and good repute. Fiercely loyal, recklessly so, and brave. To think that those villains have corrupted him beyond recognition does not strike a true chord with me." In a rare show of affection for any of his men, even though D'Artagnan was not yet one of them, he came forward and laid his hands on the boy's shoulders. D'Artagnan looked up at him and the lost look in his eyes nearly drove the words from the captain's mind, but he persevered for example's sake. "Know this," he said. "I do not know why your father decided to side with them. He would have had reason to, but your father's pride and honor would have prevented him. I cannot believe such a dear friend and admirable man such as your father is lost."

"It has been years since he was admirable, Monsieur," D'Artagnan said in a somber tone. "I did not reveal the source of my injuries when I returned from home because I did not wish to ruin any friendship between you and my father on his behalf."

"Are you telling me your father fought with you," the captain breathed.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"He wanted me to give up my commission, and return home. For good."

Jealousy? A jealousy that turned into murderous rage? It was outrageous, and yet the broken boy Treville saw before him spoke the truth. "All your father ever wanted for you was to receive a commission. It was all he spoke of to me since you were born."

"I failed to notice when that changed, Monsieur, but rest assured it did and without my knowledge until the damage was done."

"This is disturbing news indeed," Treville whispered. "If I was not needed by the King's side, son, I would ride out with you. Something is very wrong and you must tread carefully. For them to attack you, practically a musketeer of the King's personal guard, and to kidnap another is seen as an attack upon the king himself. Treason. And if your father is found to be one of their company… are you prepared to act accordingly, D'Artagnan?"

"I am," the boy said firmly.

Treville tapped a finger under D'Artagnan's chin in a silent request for eye contact. "You are certain?"

For a moment, Treville swore he could see the denial on the boy's lips, but the vehement affirmation seemed to settle some of his fears and grow new ones. "I will do as you and the King command. I will do what is required of me."

"What is required of you is to bring this business to an end and bring your friends home as unscathed as all of you can manage. Safeguard your own life as well as you would theirs. And as a favor to me, if not for yourself, discover the truth and the depths of this possible betrayal of your father. A part of me cannot accept it while the other grows sick to the stomach at the thought."

D'Artagnan nodded once, with finality.

When he dismissed the boy Treville walked to the window to watch them depart. Even after they were gone he still stood at the window, dictating business to his clerk without ever turning his head, refusing the admittance of any and all petty disputes, because, in light of recent news, everything was petty. Nothing, absolutely nothing in the world, was more important than the grief of loss and potential betrayal of a dear and close friend.

* * *

Mere moments after their company left through the southern gates of the city, and turned onto the quiet main road down to the countryside, D'Artagnan spurred his horse into a breakneck sprint that left the rest of them trotting behind.

"Lad," Porthos called. "Slow down!" He might have tried to match the Gascon's reckless speed in efforts to not be left behind, but Aramis laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Let him go," Aramis said. "He'll slow for us eventually."

Porthos shook his head and adjusted his reins. "He's going to get himself killed. Then what good would it be in rescuing Athos if all he would do would be to kill us for letting the boy run headlong into an accident?"

Aramis didn't smile and kept his attention on the small spec of their friend on the road ahead. "D'Artagnan may be reckless, Porthos, but he is not brainless. Let him be. He needs this."

True to his words, D'Artagnan slowed enough to come back into their line of vision, which relieved Porthos because he knew what kind of trouble his cousin would cause for them if they all weren't careful. Though Athos had always been somewhat reserved, Porthos knew the man better than he sometimes knew himself. He preached solitude and detachment, sometimes lashing out in anger in his efforts to be left alone to his miseries, but inside he was looking for someone to pay attention and want him just like anyone.

It was because of his pride, and perhaps Porthos' own, that they never spoke of such things. Instead, Porthos pushed Athos to what he himself knew best. Worldly comforts. And that had satisfied then all for the years that followed Milady. Once D'Artagnan charged into their lives Porthos supposed the reminder of youth made it more difficult for Athos to cope. He and Aramis had done their best to temper the weathering storms, for if ever there was an opposite to Athos moodiness and misery, it was D'Artagnan in all his energetic glory.

Now though? The lad was a shadow of what he used to be. Porthos couldn't remember hearing a single word from him after they had left that desolate part of Paris. Somewhere along the line Athos' attitude to the boy had drastically changed. Aramis was no different. And now, Porthos was beginning to feel it as well, that strange heavy feeling in his chest that just wouldn't go away until this mess was over and done with. And once it was, they could all rest assured that they were going to be dragged out, by their ears if he had to, to the nearest bar for a night of pure revelry.

Porthos sighed to no one in particular as he daydreamed of happier times.

* * *

Waking without attracting attention takes an incredible amount of skill, especially when one is the victim of a splitting headache, and not the kind from drinking too much wine the night before. Athos was known for his restraint, but his current condition was severely testing that useful quality. He could deal with his hands being bound too tightly behind his back. He could deal with the soreness in his neck from the position his captors had left him in for too long. What he could not stand was his inability to see, courtesy of the foul smelling bag secured over his head as if he were some common criminal.

But he said nothing. He did nothing but lie there and feign sleep in hopes of discovering either something about his location or what plan his captors had that involved attacking, injuring, and kidnapping him. He remembered some of the journey, but not much. And he had little patience for trying to remember that hazy period in his memory because of the last clear thing he did remember.

D'Artagnan with a knife to his throat and fear in his eyes.

Athos wasn't stupid enough to think that he and the boy could have escaped that fray unscathed, if at all. But he hadn't planned on being kidnapped and used to some unforeseeable end. If all they had been after was him then he would have spared them both the trouble and given himself up freely. But, regrettably, in that anxious moment before an ensuing battle for their lives, he did know better than to expect that kind of generosity.

His sharp eyes had caught sight of the insignia their opponents wore seconds before throwing that one man away from D'Artagnan to keep the boy alive a second longer. Athos knew what kind of men they faced, and what they were capable of. He would have thought the odds only a little outmatched for them until more joined in the efforts. So when he told D'Artagnan to run it was with the sole purpose of saving the boy's life with no respect towards his own. That was what older, more experienced…friends did for one another. And though he'd gotten away with it before, occasionally with Aramis and Porthos in their direst of plights, he didn't expect to fail outright with the boy.

D'Artagnan was simply too selfless for his own good. And while that made for an admirable quality in the best of men, it was a damned nuisance when it came to trying to be selfless in return. _He_ was the younger of them, and it was _he_ who should know his damned place. After all, he flouts his youth almost every chance he gets, even if he doesn't know it. The least he could have done was act it and save Athos the trouble…and the relentless worrying.

For that was the thing currently torturing his mind, the whereabouts and condition of his young friend. They hadn't subdued D'Artagnan like himself…or maybe they had and he didn't remember. But if that were the case wouldn't they have put them both in the same place? If they were smart, and Athos knew they were, it wasn't likely. Surely the boy wasn't dead? And if he was…Rage began to simmer in his gut at the mere possibility, and Athos had an inkling that it wouldn't be satisfied until he had the blood of the men responsible on his own hands.

"I don't understand," a man cried. "If this plan centers around bringing my son home then _why_ isn't he here?"

Athos grit his teeth together to keep from growling out loud.

"Calm yourself, my friend," another assuaged. "We've discussed this before, and in length-"

"You're not telling me something and I don't like it. You promised me-"

"I know what I promised you. It would do you better to remember what you promised us and follow through on it."

"You think I won't?"

"You are giving me doubts, yes!"

"You've told me nothing about how this plan of yours will return my son's affections and duties to me. If I do not know what part I am to play I can do little in improvising when the moment comes."

"It is as I said before," the other man whispered. "Once your son believes his friends are dead, that he is alone and will not be sought in ransom or character by his superiors, convincing him to serve under us and to return to your graces will be simple."

Now _that_ made him angry, even worse than the rage at the thought of D'Artagnan lying dead somewhere. They were going to use Athos as a means of breaking the boy's spirit, and in all probability Aramis and Porthos as well. He'd heard stories before of these rogues vandalizing homes and murdering the parents in front of the children in efforts to make them soldiers for their cause, telling stories about generosity in adopting orphans. But he thought them only rumors…

"And my part?"

"You know his fiery spirit better than any of us. You must convince him of our views and the corruption of the monarchy he blindly serves."

"The boy and I are not quite amicable to each other anymore. I hardly see how he would listen to a single word from me."  
"Then meet his blade and wear him down like you've done before," the man snapped-or leader, Athos guessed. "In order for our voice to survive and be heard we need a younger generation to keep it alive, to help us grow. Once your son realizes his foolishness in supporting such a perverted system it will be all the better for us, all the better for your family, and all the better for France. I need to know that you still support us, Bertrand."

Athos felt sick, not just physically sick but sick at heart and in mind for all the filthy words, names, and vile thoughts that he was thinking in revenge for these despicable men. His fists started to shake, but he didn't bother hiding it. If he hadn't known D'Artagnan's father was part of this union he would have laughed outright at the idea that the boy would fall victim to such a plot. This, however, was not the case. Though his eavesdropping confirmed his hopes that the boy was still alive, he realized they wouldn't last long. His friends were being led straight into a trap with him as the bait.

"He's awake," Bertrand whispered.

A lengthy pause followed that seemed to make the hairs on the back of Athos' neck stand on end. Punishment would surely follow, but Athos would welcome it to temper his fury. The leader spoke with a tone equally low and menacing, and Athos was unafraid.

"How _long_ has he been awake?"

* * *

 **A/N: Somehow just two weeks in retail hell has lit a fire under my butt to get these updates done. I know I should be thankful I have a job, but it would be nice to actually be properly trained before getting thrown to the lions. *le sigh* Yay holiday hell. And on to the next chapter.  
**


	3. Chapter 3

Aramis was jerked out of his brooding thoughts when Porthos poked him in the side.

"Are the accommodations not to your liking," Porthos said with a straight face.

Aramis shook his head, cracking the barest hint of a smile, and stretched, crackling the aching bones in his sore spine from hard riding over the past couple of days. He took a deep breath of fresh southern air and shifted in his seat by the fire. "I'll live."

"Athos knows how to take care of himself."

"I know that. Something just doesn't feel right."

"Something?"

Aramis looked over to find D'Artagnan still sleeping soundly next to them. He reached down and pulled the fallen cloak more securely around the boy before leaning back to whisper his thoughts. "Why would they have left Athos' sword for us to find? It is a fine weapon in its own regard, one that could bring a pretty penny to anyone who had a thought to sell it."

Porthos pondered on the issue and wound up shrugging his shoulders in answer. "Perhaps it was forgotten?"

Aramis shook his head. "Not likely. This was a planned attack, a planned kidnapping that we would have known nothing about if it hadn't been for those guards taking a detour they don't normally take on their patrol. These men knew where to look and where to strike. You heard Treville. They are more than skillful with just a sword. Why leave it there if not for some purpose?"

"You don't think the Cardinal has a hand in this?"

"No. But perhaps his guards were bought."

"Suppose that's the easier explanation."

"Indeed," Aramis said. "The real question is why leave D'Artagnan if their intent is to ransom a musketeer?" It was a thought that had plagued his mind as well, and though the answer was not forthcoming before, the words fell from his lips in sudden realization that seemed all too easy. "They only needed Athos."

Porthos turned to him and spoke quieter than before, more serious than Aramis had ever heard him speak. "Then why let the boy live?"

Aramis didn't have an answer for that, and part of him didn't think he wanted to know the reason why. God had taken mercy on them all by letting them keep their little brother. Aramis and Porthos didn't dare call D'Artagnan that to his face, for fear of inciting the boy's infamous Gascon temper, but in times like these, when their lives were directly threatened, Aramis couldn't help but fear he'd never see the day when he'd be able to call him such openly and perhaps even receive a similar title in return.

"Have you also noticed," Aramis said, distantly. "That they've kept to the main roads?"

Porthos nodded. "They want to be followed."

"It would seem to me that we are playing right into their hands," Aramis sighed. "But for who's benefit or detriment I cannot see. I do not like this, not at all. We are hunting blindly. Where are they leading us?"

"To a fight, obviously! One does not simply take a friend of ours unchallenged-and to take one of us, the three-"

"Four," Aramis gently corrected.

Porthos smiled with a soft look to their youngest. " _Four_ Inseparables. To take one of _us_ is asking for a meeting of blades and blood. Besides, Athos still owes me money."

Aramis finally smiled under his friend's subtle attempts to lighten the dark mood of the night. They were not left in companionable silence for long. One of the company that Treville requested they take with them came bearing news, and it did nothing for the gloom that hung over them like a cloud.

* * *

In hindsight, making an escape attempt was not a good idea.

And most definitely not on a bad leg.

His abusers dropped him in an empty stall in the far corner of the stables to keep from scaring the horses. Athos tried not to groan out loud or curl into a ball, but after the hour of punishment he received for such a stupid stunt he was hard-pressed to keep up his stoic façade for the sake of defiance. Sure, he called it stupid now, after getting caught, but it seemed logical and reasonable at the time. He didn't want to sit here and wait to be rescued like some damned woman, nor did he want his friends to walk into the trap set for them. If it there was one thing that never set well with Athos it was waiting.

"Get him up."

Now they were starting to aggravate the last of his nerves. Was one restful moment to deal with the pain too much to ask? Apparently so. They were shameless villainous underhanded dishonorable deceitful and despicable bloodthirsty murderous torturers after all. The two men who dragged him here hauled him to his feet again and pushed him backwards to catch his own weight against the wall. The impact sent a new ripple of pain across his bloody and fiery bare back. He looked up and saw their leader, Marcel Degare, with the bloody switch in his hand. Athos frowned. It hadn't been that man who beat and whipped him earlier. He had merely stood to the side and watched. While he certainly looked capable of dealing a good beating, he looked the type that let others do the work for him. To be strung up and made such a public example of made him burn with anger, but not shame. He only made one noise at the first lash, and after that had kept quiet, which had only angered his abuser further.

"Are we back to not speaking, Monsieur Athos," Degare asked. "I seem to remember a handful of colorful words you threw at us earlier. Pray tell, those aren't the only words you know, are they?"

The group of them snickered in unison.

"I'd be afraid," Athos spat. "That you wouldn't know half of the terms I have stored for simple-minded abhorrent curs like yourselves."

Degare, still smiling, stepped forward into the stall and moved towards him. "Tell us, then, who _you are_ to speak on such high boughs with such pretty words?"

"A loyal servant of _my_ master, the King of France, who is also _yours_."

Degare grabbed his throat and slammed his head back against the wall, making Athos see nothing but a dizzying array of stars while the man shouted at him.

"We have no king! We do not bow to a boy half our ages with half the intelligence of a farmer scraping his way through the seasons to make a decent profit from the harvest! I am my own master, free to come, go, and do as I will. Here, we answer to no one. We use our hard-earned money to better the community and feed the poor, not serve a house of thankless feeble puppets parading around in excessive wealth!"

Athos glared, but stilled his tongue.

Degare leaned forward, pressed the blunt end of the switch into Athos' still injured leg, and whispered in his ear. " _I_ know who you are, Comte de la Fère. There's no use in this petty wordplay between us. You are a man of honor and so am I. We are simply…neighbors in thought and ideals. I am not foolish enough to think you can be easily swayed, so we won't bother. But know this: it will be all the more sweet for me once this business is settled to know that a link of that golden chain of the aristocracy suffered and died at my hands personally."

"Then end it now," Athos gasped. "And save us both the trouble."

Degare smiled as he backed away. "You would want that. But what you fail to realize is that you are not a pawn in this game of ours. You are a piece that is far more important."

Important, he thought. What's important is making sure you die a slow death for what you're planning to do. Athos wracked his brain for a solution, for some way he could stop this and save his friends from this vile mind game, but nothing came. His eyes spotted D'Artagnan's father in the back, looking on disinterestedly.

"His loyalties will not waver," Athos growled.

Degare raised a confident eyebrow. "We'll see, won't we?"

As Degare left, two men had Athos chained to the wall above him. Thankfully he could sit on the ground, but leaning his back against the wall was out of the question because of the pain. Had his back been left alone he might have been able to fall asleep, but the pins and needles feeling in his arms was truly starting to sting after being restrained for so long. Later that night it was Bertrand who came to give Athos his ration of river water. He set it down at the edge of the stall but didn't leave.

"I expected to see my son," Bertrand said. "Not you."

"I seem to be the only one thankful that he yet lives."

Without a word, Bertrand stepped into the stall, and dumped the bucket of water over Athos' head, throwing the pail into the side wall with a loud clang. "You broke into my house," he accused.

Athos glared up at the man. "I was welcomed-"

"Liar," Bertrand shouted, grabbing Athos by the hair. "Did you threaten my wife? _Did you?!_ "

"She welcomed me to deliver the sense I had come to deliver to you _because_ of what you did to your son!"

Bertrand shoved Athos' head against the wall and attempted to leave.

"They will put a knife in your back," Athos groaned. "If you think their loyalty to you will last."

Bertrand turned and looked more surprised than angry at what Athos had implied. "What does my fate matter to you?"

"Much as I am loathe to admit it, you are D'Artagnan's father. And I would like the pleasure of seeing you on your knees before him one day. Consider it insurance."

Bertrand narrowed his eyes. "You break into my home, threaten my life, and now you warn me to keep it safe? You don't know me, Monsieur. And you certainly do not know my family nor my son."

"How can you care so little when it is your son's life that is at stake," Athos roared.

"This is entirely _for_ him."

"They were ready to kill him when I was abducted! And now you led him and his companions to a slaughter that is supposed to return his affections to you? You are his father. You know full well he will not break under these dogs until they kill him. Can you be so honorable as to watch that happen? To watch them break his spirit and pick up the pieces?"

"There is little I would not do for my son. If I had to trade my life for his I would do it without a second's thought!"

Athos scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. "You truly believe that, don't you? That this ludicrous scheme for political power will return your family to you? There was a time I bore much hatred for who I believed you to be. Now, I have only pity. Pity for what you once were and obviously have no capability of being ever again."

"And what is that?"

"A man."

Fury twisted Bertrand's face. Athos watched the man storm off and bark orders at the guards by the entrance. Athos shivered, but tugged on his chains again in vain hope that when the time came he wouldn't be useless bait. He refused to stand by and watch doom fall down upon his brothers.

* * *

D'Artagnan stood apart from his friends and fellow guards, gazing out across the expanse of country below them, his country. The wind picked up and blew through his open jacket, causing gooseflesh to dance across his skin under the thin shirt he wore. At first he didn't feel it, then when he did he decided he didn't care, or couldn't. He felt numb in every other respect, so what was the point in adding one thing more?

"We have to move on," Aramis said, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

D'Artagnan turned without a word or glance of acknowledgment. He heard Aramis muttering about one Athos being enough for the group of them but he paid the comment no mind. He saddled his horse, yet again, and they set off to cover more ground before nightfall. A brief but heavy rainstorm made them stop earlier than they planned and snuffed out the little light past sunset that they had relied on for another mile or two of riding.

D'Artagnan took care of his horse and without a word to anyone went to sulk among the drenched trees. With each day that passed the sickly feeling of worry and guilt churned worse. If he hadn't been so quick to chase after that man who knocked them down in the streets…If he had enough sense to get them out of there sooner…If he hadn't been slow in deflecting that blow that struck Athos…If he had never told him about his father in the first place…he would still be here, they would be back in Paris, patrolling, drinking, and talking endlessly about women if Porthos had his way.

He stopped underneath a large tree, punched the unyielding trunk, and sunk to the dry ground beneath it. The pain felt good, and even the sight of blood from where the skin broke made him less tense. Because of one stupid mistake the man who was practically a second father to him-or dare he suggest, a real one-was suffering. He wasn't sure who to be angrier at, himself or his father.

His father. How long had it been since he felt comfortable admitting that out loud? And to know that for years he had been a part of some rogue group of country vandals, openly defying the monarchy? It just didn't make any sense. All his father had told him when he was a child was how honorable it was to serve the King, or to even be considered to serve. Whatever had changed his father's mind had also changed his person, and not in a good way.

But did it matter?

A branch snapped. When D'Artagnan's head shot up towards the noise he saw a man aiming a small-sized musket at his head, with that damned red armband over his shirt. D'Artagnan started to reach for his sword, but stopped when he heard the unmistakenable sound of multiple guns cocking.

"There are fifty men over that hill with dry muskets waiting for my signal," the man said with gleaming eyes. "Unless you want the blood of a massacre on your hands I suggest you come with us, boy."

"Why would I do that," D'Artagnan asked, defiant despite the spike of fear in his chest for his friends not far away.

"You do it or we kill your friend, the Comte de la Fère."

D'Artagnan sucked in a quiet breath, but forced himself to think things through for once.

"How do I know you won't give the signal when my back is turned?"

The man smirked. "You don't."

Perhaps it was his own stupid faith in honor that made him surrender his sword and allow them to bind his hands behind his back. D'Artagnan wasn't sure he wanted to know. All he did know was that if they were taking him to see Athos, even as a prisoner, he welcomed the mistreatment. What other way did the musketeers have at finding Athos anyway? Though Aramis and Porthos were likely to be livid with him at what he was doing…Athos too for that matter, if he could find some chance at getting the both of them out of this alive, he would happily turn into a churchgoing man for the sake of it.

"Move, runt!" Someone kicked him from behind, and though he couldn't help himself from casting a nasty look at his assailant he said nothing.

* * *

Porthos had just shook out his wet cloak when a thought to offer the boy the same comfort came to his lips, and disappeared when he couldn't find him. He turned to Aramis who had been resting and silently praying against a tree and found that his friend had already been voicing his thoughts.

"Where's D'Artagnan," Aramis asked.

A younger musketeer than him stepped forward and pointed to the tree line. "My men saw him walk off in that direction."

Aramis shot the poor man an accusing look. "Alone? We are in dangerous country and no one had the decent thought to follow him," Aramis hissed in question as he passed.

Porthos was behind him a moment later when they both started scouring the forest for any sign of their young friend. Angry or concerned, which did he feel more of at the moment? Hunger. Yes, that was it. Hunger for knowledge that their young friend hadn't befallen some tragic turn of events.

* * *

They marched him across a couple of barren fields and then led him up the riverbank to a stone bridge. D'Artagnan could see in the distance, from lamp light on the bridge, that there was a group of men waiting for them. He tried to see their faces, but the darkness of night didn't help him. And soon enough they were already walking on it. They met in the center and stood in silence.

Impatience nearly set his tongue loose, but the group they met finally spread out. Behind them were two men, one was his father, and the other D'Artagnan could have identified from his clothing alone. His father removed the black hood from the other's head and D'Artagnan nearly smiled in relief when he saw that Athos was alive.

But his face fell when he noticed how Athos had been treated, and more importantly that his hands were tied behind his back, a dirty cloth that covered his mouth was tied at the back of his head, and a bag of rocks was tied to his bound feet. More worrying was his precarious position on the ledge of the bridge. The slightest push would send him over. Into the river. And from the looks of things, D'Artagnan would be helpless to prevent it or be able to go after him.

Yet again, there were just too many men.

He nearly gagged on his sudden inability to swallow and bit his lip in efforts to calm his shaking. He couldn't appear as weak and vulnerable as he felt because Athos' life depended on it. So when he locked eyes with his friend he forced a strong look on his face for both their sakes. One way or another he would find a way out of this. Athos looked back at D'Artagnan strangely, as if he were trying to tell him something.

"Son," his father greeted.

D'Artagnan said nothing in reply, and fixed his father with a cold scowl, until someone shoved him from behind. "Father," he said between gritted teeth.

A dark look flashed through his father's face, but disappeared as quickly as it came. "I wanted to give you a chance to change your mind," he said, grabbing Athos by the back of the collar. "About your loyalties."

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and prayed that his patience would hold out long enough, because seeing Athos like this was wearing his nerves thin. "I'm listening."

Another man stepped forward, clapping his father's shoulder as he passed. D'Artagnan regarded him with caution and tried to keep an eye on all three. "Tell me boy," he said. "Whom do you serve without yield, the King or yourself?"

D'Artagnan studied the face of the newcomer who expected a quick answer. He had scars and age lines, skin not dark enough to show southern roots, and dark deep-set eyes that reminded him of a predator. "I serve whom I deem worthy of serving, and if it is honorable."

The man smiled. "That is a good answer. What if I were to tell you that you're fighting for the wrong side?"

"The wrong side?"

"You're young, not yet a musketeer, and not yet corrupted by the fallacies of the monarchy. Do you think it's right that one family should live in luxury while the poor starve to death not ten blocks away? What of their money, spent on clothes made in the world's finest silks, while roofs of poor houses and orphanages crumble to ruin? The King's musketeers fight in the streets over petty issues of trading insults while men are murdered, women raped, and children lost in darkened corners of a city that can do nothing but leave them forgotten for their own security."

Athos words came to D'Artagnan in a fit of inspiration and before he could stop himself, he was speaking them aloud. "The musketeers are employed for bravery, honesty and-"

"Your occupation is based on a foundation of fraud. The entire regime is rotting from the inside out. Your livelihood would serve better the simple people of these lands than someone who has never seen a hard day's work in his entire life."

"Well, thank God simple men like you are not charged with governing this country." D'Artagnan could feel his patience wearing out, but he dared not take his eyes off the man he was arguing with. If anything were to happen, it would clearly come by his order, and D'Artagnan was in a position where he could have some influence over what was to happen…if his temper would stay in check that is.

"Are you so sure of yourself, Charles?"

D'Artagnan didn't flinch. "You're the ones with muskets pointed at us." That wiped the smile off the leader's face, and D'Artagnan couldn't help but let loose a small smile of victory. "The last thing I would ever do would be to betray a promise, my loyalty, because once I give it, it is my life. And that is everything any man ever has."

The leader turned his back and paced a little ways away. D'Artagnan chanced a look over at Athos and swore he saw a glimmer of pride in his eyes. Then he looked to his father who was scowling and glaring daggers at him. The funny thing was he didn't feel a shred of disappointment; he felt nothing but pride and success at finally being able to stand up for what he believed in. Before this moment it had always been about what his father believed, or what his father currently believed compared to what he used to believe.

"I think," the leader said, with his back still tuned. "It is _friendship_ that you put too much faith in. It is a vain and fickle comfort. Friends fight, they betray one another…they die."

D'Artagnan was already starting to feel wary, but when he heard the telltale sounds of muskets, of gunshots and men shouting in the distance, he started to feel afraid. He turned a disbelieving look back from where he came and felt his hope for the safety of Aramis and Porthos wane. They would have had no warning…

"Your father is the testament to putting faith in such fantasies."

D'Artagnan turned back and saw that the leader was telling the truth. He then looked at his father for an answer, feeling some of the mystery start to open up. But his father wasn't looking at him. He was looking somewhere far off, trapped in thoughts that D'Artagnan knew he wouldn't voice.

"You should know the consequences of such faults. For when you risk everything, you _lose everything._ "

The leader stood beside D'Artagnan's father. They shared a look with each other before both glancing at Athos. The leader had barely laid a hand on Athos before D'Artagnan acted, doing the one thing his mind was screaming at him not to do.

"Wait," D'Artagnan cried.

Athos looked at him but D'Artagnan ignored it, focusing instead on the leader, who gave his undivided attention. "I will do anything you ask," he surrendered.

Athos, predictably, didn't stay silent at that declaration, but no one heeded him.

"In return for," the leader asked.

"Just set him free-Let him live," he pleaded. "I swear to you that I will do whatever you want as long as you let him live!"

It sounded horrible to his own ears, but D'Artagnan was past the point of caring about his own character. If bowing down to these men meant saving the life of his friend, his mentor, then he would do it shamelessly. The leader said something to his father, and surprisingly, his father released his hold on Athos. He felt his heart soar in relief.

Until the leader spoke again.

"Living," he said. "Now that is up to him!"

Shock momentarily paralyzed him.

"ATHOS!"

It took him a second to realize that scream had come from his own lips because he was too busy fighting to get loose with everything he had. The splash of water wasn't loud enough. They were alone-No one knew where they were-No one would know what had happened-The last thing he saw was the face of his enraged father, then insufferable blackness as he was hooded and carried away, kicking and fighting less and less the farther they went.

* * *

The sound of D'Artagnan screaming his name would have worn others into a heartbreaking desperate agony, and though it cut at his own to hear it he knew that if he didn't focus on trying to free himself that misery would forever be imprinted on his soul. A quick slight of hand at that last moment before he fell over the side of the bridge gained him a blade to try and free his hands, so he worked…and not without a little fear when the cold dark water made it difficult to cut the ropes. While the bag of rocks dragged him further down he felt the small breath he took from up above begin to fade.

How long had he been under-Too long-He needed more time-More air-What he needed to do was focus!

He pulled at the ropes again, straining his tired muscles to cut through the material, and nearly gasped as the force from his efforts flung the blade out of his hands. He reached behind and below him and found nothing but water. He tried twisting around but knew it was fruitless. It was too dark for him to see. His limbs were starting to go numb from the cold. And the burning need for air in his chest was becoming too much.

All that went through his mind was a successive string of vehement denials as he struggled to get loose. Then his body started acting of its own accord, jerking and gasping for air on reflex. But there was nothing but water.


	4. Chapter 4

Drowning, he had heard, was a painful but beautiful death. The lucky ones told stories about vibrant and present colors before the blackness came, like little angels battling to save a life. Though it eased some of his childhood fear of the water, it did nothing to comfort the icy grip of fear that seized his chest when he saw Athos pushed over the edge of the bridge.

Aramis thought he heard someone screaming, and realized that it wasn't himself when he saw D'Artagnan struggling with his captors on the bridge. Their position wasn't good. Any attempt for a rescue seemed too great a risk, even under the cover of night. There was too much open field between the tree line and the riverbank. Aramis sighed to himself with their decision already made, since there never was a choice in the matter.

He pulled out his gun and turned to Porthos who hadn't taken his eyes off the rippling water. "Go now," he said to Porthos. "We'll cover you."

The man needn't have been told twice, because when he moved he made Aramis question whether cover fire was truly needed. But once he gave the order for it nothing could be rethought or taken back. The first legion they fought back at camp was quick. The second on their way to the river was quicker. This third one was slower due to disorganization. And after their first round of shots Aramis realized why; D'Artagnan was right in the middle of it.

"Hold your fire," he shouted to his fellow musketeers. For if they didn't, there was a chance their friend would be hit, or worse, killed.

Their enemies took advantage of the pause and set off fire of their own, which drove most of them back for cover. When the shots seemed mostly spent Aramis swung his reloaded pistol out and saw his friend being taken away. Without thinking, he turned to look for Porthos in the river, not accepting that things were falling apart around him-that _they_ were falling apart. And then it came. Searing hot with blinding white pain.

He cried out as he fell, because he'd been shot.

* * *

Athos and Porthos were good swimmers in their youth due to necessity. Escaping their mothers, their chores, and even each other meant crossing waters and using them for hiding. There was one instance when Porthos had proven he could hold his breath for close to five minutes. Athos had teased him and said that he cheated because he was normally so full of hot air. Now, he wished that it had been Athos who had bested him back then, for it would have given him more reassurance as he dove under the cold surface.

The break in the storm above aided him with a little moonlight and he spotted Athos easily in the darkness. He grabbed the knife Athos must have hid earlier and snapped the blade through the ropes at his hands and feet, sparing no time in hauling them both to the surface when he was done. When they broke the surface he heard nothing but shouts and gunfire. He heard his own gasp for breath, but not from Athos.

Once he reached the shore and lugged his cousin's dead weight to dry grass he looked down and froze. It was impossible. Athos hadn't been under that long. He was an experienced swimmer just like himself. There was no sense in this, in hauling out a dead body. He wasn't dead. Not Athos.

Porthos called to him.

He slapped him on the cheek.

He shook him.

He did everything he could think of.

And when that list ran out he shouted at the top of his lungs for Aramis. But when he looked up his friend was nowhere in sight. He growled and grabbed at his own hair in desperation, trying in vain to think of something he could possibly do.

But the rational part of his mind started to take over.

Athos was too pale. He wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing.

Porthos didn't think. He acted, and in an angry panic. He struck, or rather, punched Athos in the stomach with a trembling hand, more so to vent his own fear and frustration than to do any further good. Although he'd been aiming for the chest he was instantly glad that he missed, because it instilled a sudden fit of retching, coughing, and gasping in his dear friend.

Porthos laughed in relief as he helped Athos turn over. "You God-damned fool. Think you can skip out on your card debt, eh?"

Athos moaned in reply once he was done and left coughing. Not too long after that Porthos was yanked down by his collar in a vice-like grip that belied the shaky but obvious exhaustion of a near-drowning. "Where's D'Artagnan," Athos rasped with wild eyes.

"Taken," Aramis said with a grunt of pain. When he trudged over Porthos and Athos turned to look at their comrade who was sporting a bloody shoulder. Aramis waved Porthos and his efforts off, tightening a makeshift bandage on his own. "I'm fine."

"Where," Athos breathed. "Where did they go?"

"Across the bridge. We killed the rest that stayed behind, but there aren't many of us left. Those men fight like bloodthirsty pigs!"

"Get me up," Athos groaned. "Now!-we-can't let them-"

"You nearly drowned, Athos. Let Porthos and I-"

Athos shrugged him off and sat up under his own power. "You don't understand! It was a ruse. All of this. They want to recruit him. Their aim is to either kill us or make him believe we are all dead and break him with the guilt and weight of our wronged souls."

"But how could they possibly…" Aramis trailed off, and Athos filled in what he couldn't.

"We heard gunfire before they pushed me in."

Porthos stared blankly into the distance. "D'Artagnan thinks…?"

Aramis rarely swore, and in the known instances in which he did it was always under breath so no one else could hear him. Now, however, was completely different. He shouted it, so loudly that it echoed across the field.

"Get me on my feet," Athos repeated. "Now! We must not lose them!"

* * *

Tears ran down his face, but it didn't matter because no one could see them. He wanted to scream and cry until his voice was gone. He wanted to return to that tree he hit earlier and hit it until every bone in his hand was broken, but no amount of physical pain might ever match this kind that was eating him from the inside out. It seeped into every crevice, every pore, and every inch of his entire body, paralyzing him from any thought of escape or further thought for his own well being.

Because what was the point? Aramis and Porthos were likely dead. Athoswas surely dead by now.

D'Artagnan had failed them. The worst of his nightmares over the past few days had become reality. And here he was, hands bound, a hood tied over his face (just like Athos) with his body slung over the shoulder of the man he was forced to call father. D'Artagnan wasn't one to admit defeat easily. He had never liked the feeling of it in the first place and normally railed against it any way he possibly could, scraping his way out by tooth and nail just to keep it at bay. But now it clung to him like a stubborn snake, squeezing the will to go on right out of him.

Had it been wrong to think so strongly of the friends whose lives he fell into not that long ago? They had taken him in, looked after him when he couldn't do so himself, and saved his hide and defended him as if they'd known him all his life. To them, he was more than an unknown farm boy from the country, and to him they were more than friends. They were the brothers he never had, the brothers he grew to love, the brothers who selflessly threw themselves into harms way for one another.

He could see them as clear as day in the blurry darkness of his hidden tears, as if they were somehow still with him. Porthos was making him laugh at every possible occasion and forcing good homely food and wine into him, Aramis was bringing him out of suddenly strong morose thoughts with a tap on the shoulder or flick on the ear and keeping him grounded with a knowing smile and a story, and Athos…

Athos was looking at him.

Cracking a rare smile during supper.

Talking to him.

Listening.

Teaching him how to properly deflect out of a spin.

Keeping him balanced.

Keeping him on his toes.

Glaring in disapproval.

Staying by his side in a fight.

Staying by his bedside when he was sick.

Whispering reassurances in his ear.

Berating him on taking care of himself.

Telling D'Artagnan to leave…

To abandon him and save himself.

Holding him close…

And not close enough.

Holding his hand…

And telling him not to let go.

D'Artagnan kept the sobs of an agonizing misery inside, and welcomed the festering anger that erupted from it, because anger would sustain him. Not this grief. Not this sadness. And not any amount of this painful regret.

So he did the only thing he could. He started kicking and thrashing about again, only this time with more fire and determination. If he was to die, then he would do it on his own terms, and take them down with him. His efforts were eventually rewarded when he was tossed to the ground in frustration. Though he hadn't expected the impact he quickly regained his bearings and kicked out against the person who tried to lay hands on him again. From the sound of a rough cry, it was his father he had managed to blindly kick in the face.

A second later someone else came from behind, yanked off his hood, and stuck a blade in his face to make him stop. If looks could kill, then D'Artagnan would have had much better odds than he did presently. "Don't know when to stop do you, boy," Degare laughed. "Not when you're outnumbered. Not when you're alone. My men could learn a lot from you."

"If they're stupid enough to follow half-witted disgraces like you," D'Artagnan spat. "Then they're already lost causes-"

D'Artagnan's father moved past his companion, hauled his son up by his shirt, and shoved him against a tree. Before he could think he'd been slapped across the face and his chin caught in a tight but slippery grip, from a mixture of tears, sweat, and blood. "I've had enough of your mouth, boy-"

"That's too bad because I'm not finished-"

D'Artagnan's head knocked against the tree and he knew he was pushing his father's limitations, but where he would have taken care before was no longer his current sentiment. "You're finished when I say-"

"Like hell I am," D'Artagnan shouted. "I am no boy you can strike without answer! Cut my bonds and fight me like the man you say you are if you want my tongue stilled, because there is nothing else that will stop me. Not even you."

"You want to fight me," Bertrand scoffed. "Have I taught you nothing of respect?"

"You taught me enough. But you've shown me far worse."

His father turned to their only witness, a man whose name D'Artagnan wished he could temporarily erase from his memory so he could better focus the multitude of his anger. Degare shrugged, nonchalant and nothing like the quick man barking orders for them to quicken their pace half a mile back. This man was no longer nervous about being pursued, only smug in the fact that the three of them were alone in a wide open pasture.

"Do what you must, Bertrand," Degare said, hiding a smirk. "Some boys have to learn the hard way."

His father turned back to him and almost looked disappointed.

When D'Artagnan's bonds were cut he was subsequently shoved forward to the ground and his sword landed with a thud next to him. He wasted no time getting to his feet because one second later he was forced to block his father's first attack. It was a grueling duel that only the elements could add to. When the storm clouds opened up again the rain came down in sheets, drenching both father and son further into their need for vindication from the other. The power of trading blows escalated, and soon D'Artagnan was fighting more for keeping a hold on his own sword than anything else. When he barely missed a swipe his father swung at his face a trickle of familiar fear crept up from the not so distant past.

It hadn't been that long ago that he feared his father's anger and been the victim of it. Back then D'Artagnan had nothing to drive him but that fear. Now, his hunger for vengeance proved a better fuel for his focus. He quickly learned to predict his father's strikes and when he would lash out with his legs he could almost hear Athos next to his own ear telling him what to do and where to step. D'Artagnan also used his smaller stature to his advantage, as Aramis had taught him, ducking and darting under blows when he could, making his opponent tire himself out to give him better opportunities to strike. And when those opportunities did come, he struck with all the strength he had to up his chances of overwhelming his enemy, like he often had to do with Porthos.

Suddenly, his father crouched down and rammed his elbow and shoulder into his mid-section. D'Artagnan answered it by swinging his knee up to crack the man under his chin. He stumbled but grabbed onto D'Artagnan's leg and swept him off his feet. He landed onto the ground hard despite the puddles of soft mud. He kicked out with his other foot and stunned his father with a kick to the back of the head, scrambling away and getting to his feet first. His father rose slowly but did not pursue. His eyes narrowed and D'Artagnan could feel the scrutiny without looking for confirmation. He did not cower and stared the man straight into his eyes, as if to say 'Come again if you dare. My answer will be no different.'

The older man circled his son with his glimmering sword aloft, swiping and deflecting away with small meets when his son struck back with equal backbone. D'Artagnan kept a straight face and mirrored his father's aloof manner, just for spite. And as he planned, he drew his father into attacking first. But by this point, his limbs were screaming for more air and slower exertion.

Then, his sword was struck aside like two boys fighting in the woods with sticks. D'Artagnan's head snapped to the side after his father hit him in the jaw with the hilt of his weapon. And then he cried out when he felt metal slice through his thigh. Somehow he stayed on his feet and swung low, forcing his father to avoid what would have been a vicious cut to his stomach. With one warm and bloody hand on his thigh, D'Artagnan watched as his father drew himself up to his full height again and glowered down at him.

For no reason whatsoever, under those eyes he felt like a child again, the child that feared the man disguised as his father. Perhaps it was the pain, and the memories of being in pain at the hands of his father that made him feel suddenly so small. Perhaps it was the realization that he was finally fighting back and receiving injuries despite it. Either way, he failed to hide the burst of fear that overtook him. His father shook his head in disappointment.

"You almost had me convinced," Bertrand said. "That you were no longer a boy."

"Was that all that ever mattered to you," D'Artagnan asked, hating the vulnerability that pushed forward and held the stability of his voice captive. "Seeing the day I could finally hold a sword and use it? When I was a child all you ever told me was 'wait,' or 'you're not old enough,' 'just one more year,' 'not until your mother says,' never 'not until _I_ say' but 'when I think you're ready' and 'when I'm ready to let you go.' I remember a father who loved his son for who he didn't want him to be. Where is that man?"

"Dead," Bertrand said, without missing a beat.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I don't believe that. You believed in something once-you believed in me!"

"Is that all that sustains you? People in your life that fight for you and die for you? People change, Charles. Their allegiances and loyalties change! I learned from a very young age not to depend on anyone-and when I thought I was wrong-when I learned to trust, it cost me nearly everything. By now you should know the same!"

Bertrand lunged at his son again and D'Artagnan parried as best he could, dodging holes and puddles in the field as they went.

"All I know," D'Artagnan growled. "Is that you took away the only true friends I have ever known. And for what? Seizure of the crown? A rebellion? If you think I could ever join you after what you have done to me then you're mad!"

"He doesn't know," Degare called. "Does he, Bertrand?"

"Marcel," Bertrand called back. "Hold your tongue!"

Degare walked over to them, stopping by his father's side after giving D'Artagnan an assessing look-over. "He'll _understand_ us better if you do."

"This is my fight. I trusted your lead before, and I have trusted you since then to let it stay mine."

"And what would you have me do when I see you _falter,_ " Degare whispered. "You tell him or I will."

His father turned his murderous gaze onto him, and D'Artagnan was surprised to see it soften, change into some wary but resolute determination. "You want to know why? You want the harsh truth of _why_ I wanted you back? Why that sword and that uniform make my hate sing?"

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and reached into his reserves for the strength he needed to stay upright. "Yes. I. Do."

"In the old days becoming a musketeer wasn't just a matter of nobility, nor was it the amount of noble blood you had flowing in your veins. You were tested. For your loyalty. Your bravery. And your spirit…"

As D'Artagnan listened he watched the jaded dispassionate and angry person he'd known for so long change. It was as if he were on the other side of a dirty window, looking into a house he would only know from memory. The curtains and layers of grime peeled back, just as layers of emotion did on the face of his father. Then, like a flash of light, he realized what he was seeing.

Pain.

"It was all your grandfather ever wanted for me. I and my training were all that filled the house of my father and brothers. That passion that was instilled into me was how I met Jean-Armand, how we fought our way into the preliminary ranks of the musketeers, and how we stayed there, facing trial after trial to further success. One day, a rogue in a company of bandits broke my leg in the middle of a battle…"

D'Artagnan closed his eyes as a memory fought its way to the surface of his mind.

 _His father entered his room, limping quietly to the side of his bed. He sat on the edge, not knowing that his slumbering young son was awake. D'Artagnan didn't move an inch, not even when his father brushed his unruly hair aside._

" _My dear Charles," he whispered. "One day you will be old enough to understand, and I hope that when that day comes you'll find a way to forgive me, for all I've done. It will surely be a miracle if you do, and it is one that I do not believe I will ever be worthy of, so I will not look for it…"_

"Jean dragged me out of the scuffle and we hid for cover while the others tried to hold the front line. I told him to leave me, self-sacrificing fool that I was. He did not go easily or quietly, not until we heard the dying sounds of our captain and superiors yards away. I fainted some time after that. And I woke hours later. Alone. I'd been left for dead. They abandoned me. But I refused to go quietly into death's embrace."

 _He had heard the raised voices from his bedroom and went to see what was the matter. On the stairs he saw his father pointing a finger in his mother's face while he held her against the wall. "I am protecting this family from ruin," his father hissed. "I am ensuring that we live to see another season. Tell me what lengths you wouldn't go to building a future for our son?"_

 _Something was wrong. His father never spoke to his mother like that before. And he had never seen his mother so upset, not since his grandparents died. Had someone else died?_

"I crawled my way to a nearby farm, where a good man and his family took me in and helped me recover. Months later I returned to Paris and found Jean in a similar state of recovery, but the rest of the regiment were not as friendly, not the same brothers I fought beside. I was refused the return of my commission due to my leg. And no one but Jean spoke up in my defense. Jean gave me some hope, but that day I turned my back and vowed never to return."

 _They were arguing. His father was trying to drown him out but the stubborn streak in D'Artagnan made him only speak louder. Then his father slammed his fist down on the table in front of him. D'Artagnan stilled with words caught in his throat. Fearfully he looked up at his father who was seething in silent rage. His father closed his eyes and flexed his hands before abruptly rising and storming out the front door of the house._

 _The front door slammed shut as he left._

"Jean begged me to reconsider, to petition the king. But by then I'd already met your mother. My dream of being a musketeer, even if given some hope, was by then lost. That is why I wished the world for you."

 _D'Artagnan cried out as he fell to his knees, holding his bleeding nose in his hand. Once he got over the shock from the pain and amount of blood he looked up to his father, almost fearful that it would happen again. His father appeared guilty and regretful for the injury. But he didn't apologize and he didn't offer his hand or bother to check and see the extent of the bleeding._

" _A man takes care of his own needs. And hurts," he added with a dark look._

D'Artagnan looked at his father, judging the entirety of the story to be truthful, but finding it hard to swallow. What was worse was seeing how much the pain of those days weighed on the man, how it made him older and more burdened than his real years.

"Among my men," Degare started. "Your father was valued for what his musketeers deemed a _liability_ -"

"Enough, Marcel" Bertrand said, turning his back and walking to his son. D'Artagnan stiffened and raised his sword. It met nothing but air. His father stopped, well within striking distance. "Believe me when I tell you that that kind of pain…the pain of lost dreams and regret turns the best of men into shells of who they used to be. I was taught that honor is everything in this world. To have that stripped from you and be forced to move on without a backward glance is an damned insult and the worst kind of betrayal I never wanted you to know."

His grip on his sword tightened and he kept it between himself and his father. D'Artagnan spoke, but not as loudly as he wanted to. "You never hated me for my own dream?"

"You're my son," Bertrand snapped. D'Artagnan flinched and would have backed away had he not noticed his father look away in regret. And acceptance. "You…are everything I never was. Everything I never could be. It's not hate son. It's pride."

D'Artagnan lowered his sword to hide the shaking in his arm, but felt his face darken with memories of what consequences he had suffered because of that truth. "Pride and ridicule aren't the same thing. You struck me unjustly and tore me down because of it. You never spoke to me of this before, not even when I asked for your permission to leave for Paris. You let me go. You pushed me out and when I returned after achieving what I thought would have been impossible I come home to disappointment."

Something cracked in his father and D'Artagnan knew he was pushing for more pain, but part of him couldn't help it. Seeing his father hurt, seeing him vulnerable and finally open to feeling something other than anger and coldness made him…happy. It made the pain in his leg dull to an ache, it made his head clearer than it's ever been, and it gave him strength. "Tell me," D'Artagnan said in a shaky voice. "If I do nothing but cause you pain and agony at my failures as your son then why bother with me at all? Why care if I live or die?"

Bertrand paled in shock. "…You're talking nonsense, Charles-"

"I am speaking the truth-something you never cared to hear," he shouted, stepping forward and shoving his father away from him. "You never listened-it was always your thoughts over mine, your voice drowning mine into submission. You think you can give me the answers I craved as a boy and be satisfied knowing my forgiveness would surely follow? I hate you for everything you did to me, for everything you've done, and I hate you still!"

Seeing red wasn't an expression that D'Artagnan had much knowledge of, but in that moment he finally understood. He started raining powerful blows on his father, driving him back across the field that they had previously trod over in opposite footfalls. Bertrand gasped for breath in his attempts to keep up with his quick son, but was fading under the unnatural wrath that possessed D'Artagnan. Then he was falling backwards, disarmed and at the mercy of a sword near his throat. His hand flew up in mercy and, thankfully, his son stopped.

"What are you waiting for," Degare asked, sneaking up behind D'Artagnan. "After all he did to you, here is your chance. Give yourself justice. Avenge your friends. Until you do their murdered souls will aimlessly wander these empty lands and yours will bleed itself dry in want for your revenge."

"Charles," his father tried. But D'Artagnan brought his blade close enough to touch the skin.

He could feel the monster inside of him hungry for more pain, more vindication after all the torment he suffered. The power-high was like nothing D'Artagnan had ever felt before. It was completely overwhelming, sustaining, and comforting in that he was now the one with his father at his mercy. He would have heeded the words Degare was whispering at his back but for one thing. His father was crying. He wasn't pleading for his life. He wasn't crying for himself. But his father was crying. And repeating two words. Over and over.

"My son."

 _He was sitting in his father's lap in one of the earliest memories he had. He was small, perhaps only five, because when he reached for the dull blade of the sword his father was showing him his hands weren't quite big enough. It didn't shine like his father's did._

" _This belonged to your grandfather, Charles. It was a gift from the King of France for his bravery. One day, I will pass this to you when you're ready."_

 _D'Artagnan tilted his small head up and saw his father's, upside down, looking down on him. "Can I be ready now?"_

 _Bertrand smiled. "Not yet, my son. Stay my little angel for a while longer?"_

" _But I'll always be that. I want to be better than anyone else in the entire world, just for you!"_

" _I believe you will," he chuckled. "Certainly better than anyone in the world considering you're my son. Perhaps one day you'll be a better man than me."_

 _D'Artagnan pulled a face. "That's too hard!"_

" _Afraid of the challenge, little one?"_

" _No! But you're perfect. What's better than that?"_

" _You," he said, pressing a soft kiss to D'Artagnan's head._

His mind whirled with more images, trying in vain to string some coherent sense of his life together. He vaguely recognized that his face wasn't just wet from the cold of the rain, but with warm tears of his own, streaming down like a floodgate had been opened. The answer was right in front of his face, and it had been with him since that fateful night, not so long ago, when his secret agony had been discovered. It felt shameful to still want it, and the knowledge that it was only natural confused him still. He tried to take a deep breath and steady the torrent inside him but it wouldn't abate.

"Father," he moaned, defeated and dismayed. "I don't…I can't. Father, I can't be you. I cannot do it! God help me, but I can't!"

Something passed between father and son, something that broke through the thick wall that had been between them for years. It was something D'Artagnan could only later describe as an awakening, as if both of them had woken and realized who they still were; D'Artagnan the frightened young child desperately seeking guidance, acceptance, and recognition, and his father…the warm, loving, caring person he hadn't been in years.

Bertrand swallowed with more tears in his eyes. "Then don't," he whispered. "I couldn't stand it if you did. I've ruined enough of both our lives in my need for vengeance, for meaning and _foolish_ pride. I do not deserve your forgiveness, but if there is any shred of love that a son can still have for this broken man, please heed my warning. Be _nothing_ like me. Do not follow the path I mistook for righteousness!"

And there it was, tarnished by the years, but recognizable even in the darkest of memories. It's the one thing any child ever craves from a parent. It's the first thing he knows. The first thing he understands. And the last thing he remembers at the end of his life.

Love.

Naked and brilliant.

A glimmer of it in the darkness shining so bright that it hurt.

His sword fell from his boneless hand. And in the comfort of those familiar eyes, D'Artagnan's hatred fled, bringing him to his knees in some strange breathless place between awe and understanding.

"Kill him," Degare warned. "Kill him _now!_ "

"No," D'Artagnan gasped, barely having the strength to shake his head, but keeping eye contact long enough to see his beaming father. "No."

"Like father like son," Degare hissed, drawing his own sword and preparing for a killing strike. "Weak."

D'Artagnan was tired. Exhausted even. His eyes fell closed of their own accord because the thought of defending himself after all this seemed impossible. Even if he reached for his sword there was no way he could bring it up in time to stop the inevitable. So he waited on hands and knees and listened for the swoop of the downward strike.


	5. Chapter 5

D'Artagnan's eyes snapped open when he heard that sword meet metal. He looked up and stared in surprise at his father standing over him, protectively.

"There is one honor greater than that of a man's word," Bertrand said. "His heart. His love and devotion to his family. To his son. And my son is worth a hundred thousand of you. Damn your revolution and damn the day you ever dared think you could use me to your own ends! If you want a fight, then here I stand, you varlet."

Degare smiled, twisted but eager for what was to come. "So certain of yourself, old man?"

"Certain of your death, yes."

The two men fought across the field, away from him and for a moment D'Artagnan wondered at the inhuman strength that seemed to take over his weary father. The longer he watched though, the sooner he saw that it wouldn't last long. So he snatched his sword up and tried to get to his feet. The pain in his leg shrieked anew and sent him right back down into the mud. He tried again and again to get back up, but every time he took a step forward the pain proved too much, and each time made him slower from the blood loss.

Just as he gritted his teeth together to try again he looked up in time to see Degare pin his father to the old dead oak tree. His father was spent and Degare looked nothing but invigorated. Their blades screeched together under desperate strain and D'Artagnan's heart started hammering in his chest when he saw Degare only using one hand. The man leaned in close to his father and said, "I'm afraid you've outlived your uses, my friend."

Then, with his free hand, he slashed at Bertrand's throat with a hidden blade.

"NO," D'Artagnan screamed.

He could only watch as his father's sword fell and he slumped to the earth beneath his feet, choking and dying. The irrational thought that he could still save his father had him crawling on hands and knees through the mud and water like a senseless animal. He grunted through his efforts, as if making the noises could somehow make him faster. But by the time he reached his father's side the man was already gone.

"This is what we do," Degare said, cool and calm. "What we did when we were once musketeers in Paris. Without fear people don't know you exist. They spit on you in self-importance and forget that one blow could mean the difference between life and death. They forget their humanity. And when you remind them, as you have to now and again, it opens doors for you without ever having to knock for entrance."

D'Artagnan struck out in a raging hot fury, stumbling from his leg wound but holding his ground long enough to deal a nasty gash along the man's arm. Degare cried out and, laughing as he did it, he thrust D'Artagnan's sword from his hand and beat him down with his fists. One final head knock onto a large boulder had him at Degare's mercy, and not a second later there were hands around his throat.

"Your friends are dead. Your pathetic excuse for a father is dead. Who do you have left to fight for, boy? Who else if not your own people? Your countrymen?"

What did he have left? He hadn't known the true meaning of what it meant to be alone until that very moment, when the life was slowly being choked out of him as he lay there, writhing on top of a large stone that would have been big enough for five epitaphs. There was little strength he had left to keep his neck from being snapped in two and stars were dancing on the edges of his sight, threatening to overtake him. He had nothing. Absolutely nothing left…

…but one thing.

"Me," he gasped, determinedly pulling at Degare's iron grip on his throat. "And… _my honor_."

Degare sneered down at him. "You disappoint me if that's all the fight you have left for it." Then, suddenly, he let go and backed away. "Go on then, get up."

D'Artagnan choked for air before dragging unsteady arms to push himself up. His head spun and the ground tilted underneath him, which made it hard to tell where the ground was. Just as his arms began to shake under the strain of his upper body, Degare punched him across the face, sending him right back against the boulder where he started. Blood leaked out from his nose and nearly made him gag when it ran back down his throat. He tried again and had the same result.

Maybe it was the blood loss, but it seemed like every time he did it, stubbornly clinging to life and refusing to back down, Degare looked angrier. Finally, when he was on the edge of consciousness Degare drew him up by his ruined shirt and spat in his face as he spoke. "What are you but a simple little farm boy from Gascony running around in a musketeer's uniform. Lot of good that crest does you out here, boy!"

"And…what are you," D'Artagnan said. "A nameless bastard picking fights in the countryside. Preying on…weaker men… _boys_ half my age because no one with half a brain would bother listening to your lies and schemes…You've proved one thing. You've proved…that you are the one thing…men like you always fear to become. Absolutely… _no one_ at all. After all these wasted years and bloodshed you are still _nothing_ and will die _nothing!_ "

Marcel Degare's face twisted in a terrible rage and D'Artagnan saw him raise his fist high in the air. There was a knife in it. The knife that killed his father. It was fitting to die by the same blade, he thought, because he could think of no other way to have it by this man's hands. Though the injustice burned like a roaring flame in his chest as he watched the blade descend on its way to end his life he let his thoughts drift towards who would be waiting for him on the other side. And in those final moments, he knew some kind of peace that preceded the pain of death.

He opened his eyes to greet it, but a shadow appeared behind them and took a shape that shocked him into full awareness and stunned silence.

* * *

Athos leaned forward, pushing and twisting the man's own knife that he drove into his gut deeper, and whispered into Degare's ear. "Rot in the hell you've made, _devil._ "

It was not a pretty death, but it was fitting for the life that man chose to lead and the pain he chose to cause. Athos released him, collapsing onto the boulder and peering over the side as the man quickly bled to death. He turned his gaze away and rested his head on his arm to catch his racing heart. He moaned aloud at the realization that he was almost too damn slow. He almost hadn't caught that hand. He almost hadn't…the mere thought of it was too much to even comprehend.

He picked his head up, painful as it was for him to do so, and looked on at D'Artagnan who was very much alive and fearfully as shell-shocked as Athos felt. They stared at each other in disbelief. Panting for breath and admittedly shaking from frayed nerves, he reached over and touched the boy's face, finding it warm and inexplicably real. He started listing all the injuries he could see, and found himself returning to that awful moment in the stables back home when everything changed between the two of them. D'Artagnan reached up and grabbed Athos's hand, attempting a smile that instantly started to crumble under bitterness with tears and sadness.

"I thought you were dead!"

"You're among friends who are tough to kill. I thought that was clear from the moment we met."

D'Artagnan lunged at him then, as best he could at any rate, and grasped Athos so tightly that he gasped out loud at how it made him dizzy. But it was a sensation he welcomed with open arms. They both sat on the wet ground as he wrapped his arms securely around the boy who had been the source of all his grief over the past week.

"I'm sorry," D'Artagnan cried. "I'm sorry for everything! I never meant for any of this to happen-"

"Hush," Athos whispered, cradling the boy's head under his own with a gentle hand. "You're alive. That's all I give a damn about."

D'Artagnan openly wept and Athos let him, too tired with relief that he had been allowed this one miracle he prayed for through out his captivity. To be alive in this moment as well was more than what he hoped for. Aramis and Porthos approached silently, both relieved that their delay from another small band of rogues hadn't meant certain death for either of their friends. Once D'Artagnan started to quiet down Aramis laid a hand on the boy's back.

"What did we tell you, D'Artagnan," Aramis said.

D'Artagnan's head shot up and Athos feared that the shock might have been too much for him because he was trembling so badly.

"You mean what did _I_ tell him, Aramis," Porthos joked, though it lacked his usual cheer.

Before any of them could say another word D'Artagnan yanked them all close into an embrace. Aramis winced at his shoulder being jostled, but made no sound and returned the affection, glad to be in company of his living friends. Porthos was all too happy to join in, but got a little too enthusiastic.

"Damn it, Porthos," Athos cursed. "My leg!"

"Don't ruin the moment," Porthos groused. "You'll live, grump that you are."

D'Artagnan chuckled as his final tears, of happiness, sent him into blissful and merciful oblivion.

* * *

 _Two days later…_

He studied the blade of his grandfather in his hands, alone in his bedroom, home in Gascony. It was indeed a fine weapon, expertly cast and well taken care of-as a gift from the King of France should be. In the morning light from his window he could still make out the inscription, small as it was: 'Steadfast hearts conquer all.'

They were simple words, but with grand meaning that D'Artagnan found little room for. The weapon had been granted to him in his father's will, but part of him wondered if he couldn't leave the sword here at home, at the very least for insurance for his mother. But then he remembered that his aunt and uncle were coming to live with her, so things could hardly be as bad as he feared they might be. Left without excuses he trudged over to the mirror and in a fit of curiosity he undid his own sword and attached his grandfather's.

It was slightly heavier, and longer to accommodate someone much taller than him. He remembered dreaming of using this very sword in battle one day, but now that he looked at it and realized its worth, it didn't seem right. This sword wasn't a weapon, and it wasn't a treasure either, it was a memory of everything that was, of the happier times he spent with his family, with his father. Wearing it cheapened the grandeur. So he took it off and put his own back on, stowing the old sword in a velvet cloth made specifically for it, never knowing if it would see the light of day again. And he didn't care if it didn't.

D'Artagnan went downstairs, dreading his duty with each step, and was surprised to find Monsieur de Treville standing at the side of his father's simple coffin.

"I came looking for forgiveness," he said, without turning or looking up. "And perhaps a little of the old times your father and I shared. Instead I find death and silence…How did he die?"

"Saving me," D'Artagnan said, quietly. Almost mechanically, he retold the account of their duel, leaving nothing out, but managing to keep his voice steady. "It didn't matter much," D'Artagnan muttered, shaking his head. "Not in the end."

"You say that now because he's not here. Perhaps _he_ considers it did."

"Perhaps…"

Treville sighed. "I fought for your father in those dark days. I visited as often as I could, to keep his spirits up. Somehow it never seemed to be enough. After you were born… I thought finally he had come back to himself. I would hope that the work I've done to instill pride and honor into what we do today has washed away the sins of those that came before me. I would understand if you do not wish for this life to be your fate. The dangers you face as a musketeer are a high price. Especially for a single parent."

"If I gave up my sword, Monsieur," he said with a weak smile. "I would have to face my mother's fury. That I am not ready to face."

"If you or your mother find yourselves in need of aid, you need look no farther than myself."

"Thank you, Monsieur."

Treville turned back and laid a gentle gloved hand on the face of D'Artagnan's father. After a moment he reached to the sword strapped to his waist, moved it, and placed the hilt in Bertrand's cold hands. "This is where it should have been," Treville whispered. "Years ago. Forgive me for my blindness, old friend."

The captain respectfully left to greet his musketeers and D'Artagnan moved to close the coffin. But he hesitated when his gaze fell on his father one last time. Some unnamable feeling ballooned in his chest and rendered him motionless. All he could do was stare. Until his mother laid a soft hand on his back and turned his attention. He looked at her in childish want for comfort and support, and perhaps for some form of permission.

She said nothing, touched the other side of his face, and kissed his cheek. He pressed his determined lips together and finally closed the coffin. As he rested his hands on the lid he closed his eyes in preparation for what needed to be done. And when he set about doing it, angrily driving the nails into the wood to seal the opening, his mother stubbornly held onto him. If she hadn't, he later realized, he wouldn't have been able to.

They buried Bertrand under a tree on the edge of their property. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis stayed, at a distance when D'Artagnan requested it, until he was ready. Reflecting on the entirety of what happened, he was scared to admit how close had he been to losing everything. He had lost much, which was certain. But if he had lost anything more…He would have understood all too well what his father warned him about. Because to lose everything would mean returning to that awful evil feeling of having nothing and no one at all.

He closed his eyes and tried, with all his heart, to forget it.

* * *

 _Six months later…_

D'Artagnan woke abruptly from his disturbing sleep, sweaty, cold, and shaking. He panted loudly in the dark, trying to stay above the cold waves of fear and convince himself that what he had seen wasn't true, but like all the other nights before this he failed miserably. It was dark in his room and that only added to the paranoia that things were not right, that he could still be dreaming and further tragedy and horror were waiting just beyond the door. So, understandably, the outline of a figure in the doorway made him start. But when Athos stepped into the light D'Artagnan let out a breath he'd been holding and tried to hide his white knuckles underneath the covers.

"I'm fine," he croaked.

"No, you're not," Athos whispered. He came further into the room, sat on the side of D'Artagnan's bed, and wordlessly pulled him into an embrace.

He was still shaking, even after he clung to the man like a piece of wood in the middle of an endless sea. True to Athos' fashion, he said nothing and maneuvered them on D'Artagnan's bed, as he'd done many nights before, leaning back into a comfortable position so the both of them could get a decent night's sleep. For they had learned the hard way that once D'Artagnan's nightmares flared up, they didn't stop simply by waking and venturing back.

He buried his face in Athos' chest and after ten minutes of deep breathing, as per Aramis' instructions, the tension was nearly gone. Though their arms were still wound tightly around each other, neither man said a word and was resigned to spending another night like this, together to keep the invisible demons at bay. They never spoke of the dreams if D'Artagnan didn't volunteer the account, and tonight it seemed that all he wanted was simple comfort and rest.

"What man isn't without his nightmares?" D'Artagnan mumbled against his chest, with his insecurities unusually bare for anyone to see.

"Not a very good one," Athos said, rubbing D'Artagnan's arm with surprising gentility for emphasis.

"Athos-"

"If you thank me one more time, boy, _I swear_ -"

D'Artagnan smiled. "Nothing, then."

"Go to sleep," he whispered, waiting until the boy was asleep before adding the unspoken addendum between them. "Son."

The combination of Athos rubbing his shoulder and the steady beat of his heart beneath D'Artagnan's cheek seemed to send him, unreservedly, straight into a peaceful dreamless sleep which made Athos thankful. The older musketeer stayed up longer, continuing his vigil for any signs of another nightmare. He listened to the quiet of the night, and the occasional snore from Porthos across the hall, and found his thoughts return to a long forgotten mark on the hand that he had been using to comfort the boy.

The jagged but faded burn scar on his hand caught the moonlight from the window and took him back to a time of punishment at the hands of his own father. A noticeable shiver went through him at the uncomfortable memory and, though he tried to hide it, D'Artagnan unconsciously shifted closer and tightened his arms around him. Typical, Athos thought, shoving those traitorous thoughts and memories back down. Noble and selfless even while he's asleep. But after a moment's thought, he decided he didn't mind. And after another, he admitted that he was thankful for it. Because life went by much easier when you had someone like you, someone who knew, how to travel the lonely road to acceptance.

* * *

 **A/N: Anyone with any suggestions for the sequel please feel free to pass it along. I'm not entirely sure what it will entail yet, but something with our four boys, Treville, and maybe even D'Artagnan's mother. Hope you enjoyed the story!**


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